


The Long Track

by crashmaker (csgb)



Series: Racing Hearts [2]
Category: Cars (Pixar Movies)
Genre: Hurt/Comfort, M/M, Mental Breakdown
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-07-05
Updated: 2020-07-05
Packaged: 2021-03-04 20:09:19
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,055
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/25082152
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/csgb/pseuds/crashmaker
Summary: Lightning loses and breaks down. Doc does what he can.
Relationships: Doc Hudson/Lightning McQueen
Series: Racing Hearts [2]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1816537
Comments: 2
Kudos: 31





	The Long Track

**Author's Note:**

  * For [objectlesson](https://archiveofourown.org/users/objectlesson/gifts).



> Plot: Lighting loses, and comes out of his car. Doc falls in love, all over again. (Semi-sequel to Racing Hearts, however works as a standalone)

It's no good. He can't make it. Number 47 was overtaking him in the final lap, and that stupid bearded newbie was gonna beat him. Lighting McQueen pushed his car for all it was worth, trying to edge his way, and he found himself neck and neck with the newly crowned King of the track, or whatever stupid name they gave him.

There was something though about that other car, a solid pressure that came from strong competitors. It was something more than just racing— it was the feeling of being completely outclassed, like no matter what you did you could never best them. Lighting was used to exuding that overwhelming pressure, that smooth confidence that left others struggling even more than they already were. Like you should have given up years ago because you'd never win, you'd never be anything.

Lighting faltered and that was all it took and not even just the King, but two other cars overtook him in the final moments. He could feel it in his grip, the way that he tensed, somehow that was it, like that was all it took for him to realize that yes, he would lose. All because in one second you lost sight of what was important. The road ahead of you. One glance at your opponents and that was it. You were gone, and it didn't matter how well you did the other hundred and ninety nine laps, or even the races you did before, it all didn't matter because in those final moments you lost.

"And he had done it! The King has done it!"

The announcer might as well have called for Lightning's execution. He wasn't even going to make it onto the podium, a stumbling fourth place. He was in a daze, just automatically driving to his pit where his crew was waiting. Luigi was outside his door, saying something muffled. Lightning couldn't hear him past all the plastic of his helmet and the pounding of his blood in his ears.

Then the light through the window darkened and he knew, a certainty found deep in his gut, that it would be Doc. Fuck. He didn't want to be seen like this. Shit, he was crying in his helmet. Nope, that was not coming off, no way.

There was a knock on the roof of the car. "Hey Sport. Coming out?" Doc's face must be at the window now, staring at him through the drivers grid. Lightning turned and he could feel his shoulders shake as he saw, something worse than disappointment in the leaning man's face— it was soft kindness in that man's blue eyes. That's not it. That's not what he deserved.

"Open the door, Lighting," came the command, and mechanically he obeyed and in a stupor stumbled out and into the older man's arms. "Shh, shh, I got you."

There was a distant hand rubbing his back, and even though he knew Doc was right next to him, Lightning was still there, trapped in the moment when Number 47 overtook him, and in that moment he lost his chance to be on the podium at the biggest race of the year. Every time he didn't win was another notch in his belt, marking another moment where he just wasn't good enough.

He could feel the tears being caught in the foam padding of his helmet, pressing to his cheeks, soaking into his skin. He was shaking, and he was embarrassed. Everybody could probably see him. The cameras would be on him too and there would be articles about how he disappointed his fans and, god, interview requests and this question would always pop up in the future— what happened?

It wasn't any good thinking about it but Lightning was drowning in his thoughts and his tears and now his nose was dripping in his helmet and then there was a firm hand on his back pushing him and Lighting moved.

The sounds of the crowds faded away as he went down the service halls, but Lighting couldn't see where he was going or really cared. He just moved, and he knew Doc would be talking to him. He heard a door open, and Doc ushered him inside.

Lightning looked around. Ah, the shower room. Doc produced a key from somewhere and locked the door behind them. Then, gently, old hands came to the edge of Lighting's helmet. Lifting it up, the air rushed in and Lighting's hair somehow felt damper in the cold air.

Lighting had his eyes squeezed shut. He couldn't do it. Doc was more than just his, well, he was so much, but he was also his coach, his teacher. And he forgot everything, about keeping his cool, about keeping his mind on the road, just driving.

He felt a cloth, it was the scent of detergent, and it was just Doc's plain cotton handkerchief that he always had, of course. Using it to wipe the tears off Lighting's cheeks, and his eyes. The snot off his nose.

He felt strong arms lift him and he was sitting on the long counter next to the sink.

"Look at me," and then more warm fingers tipping his head up. "Hey, look at me Lightning. Come on," and thumbs were stroking along his cheekbones. It was dragging his fresh tears now, and he was gonna get Doc's hand dirty with his stupid tears and—

He felt himself being held, his head pressed into Doc's chest, one of the buttons on his temple and the whole world became Doc—his hands combing through his hair and soothing his back and Doc's deep voice making calming shushing sounds, like the small rumble of a brook.

"Hey, you're shaking," came Docs's voice, coming almost out of the older man's chest where Lighting's head was resting.

"I fucked up," blurted Lightning. He was heaving, and sucking in breath from Doc's shirt, filtering out the locker room air into the scent of old-fashioned cologne and light sweat. "I didn't— I couldn't concentrate and at the end I just, it didn't matter, you wasted your time with me. I'll never get it, I mean I thought, but then it just—" and he dissolved into tears. He couldn't even spit out what was wrong, because it was all wrong. He was wrong.

Lightning felt the rumble of Doc's voice more than heard it. But it felt like he was underwater, like the voice was coming from far away. You didn't mess up, kid, Lightning thought he heard. He just couldn't sit still. He felt jittery, and wondered how people did it, how could they just sit still and feel things when he really couldn't do that and didn't want to feel things. He kept breathing, or trying to, and had Doc's platitudes wash over him like a waterfall, a baptism, but nothing could wash away the shame he felt.

He felt his head being tipped up but he kept his eyes closed. The harsh fluorescent lights of the locker room could be felt past his eyelids, and then he felt, more than saw, Doc's shadow fall on his face. He felt Doc's lips, soft on his cheeks.

Doc's words seemed so far away. He could just feel how hard the counter was on him, and how warm Doc was. It felt like he still had his helmet on, everything else was pulsing. The sounds of the crowds... Was that really just outside the door or in his head? All those people who were cheering the drivers who beat him. All those fans that he had that would be disappointed.

"I'm not disappointed," came through the fog, cutting through the buzz in his ears. "You haven't disappointed me, you haven't disappointed the crew," and things like that go on and on, and somehow along the way, Lightning's breathing slows—did he always breathe that fast?— and he could feel the pounding in his head ebb. His chest felt hot though and so did his face, buried in Doc's shirt, sweating and, right he had just finished his race and—

Hands lifted him up off the counter. His feet planted on the floor, shaking off pins and needles.

It was enough. Lightning knew he had to get back out there. How long was he in here? How was he supposed to face all those people? He felt himself being pulled loosely by the hand, turning through tunnels—the crowd was still going strong and the announcers had their voices come out in that reedy noise of the speakers.

The hallways were bland, lit by more fluorescents, but Lightning kept his head ducked down, not wanting to be recognized, keeping himself small, and looking at his feet tapping listlessly on the floor.

The sound of a push door, and then it was the outside, still lit by flood lights, but it wasn't the track— it was the parking lot. "Where are we going?" Lightning mumbled.

"Back home," replied Doc. "I'm making us chili."

"Oh. But you don't like chili."

"It's not my first choice. But you love it, so I'm making it." Lighting suddenly felt his eyes prick and he realized how swollen they must have been before. But they had made it to Doc's car, and the sight of it somehow plugged up his would-be tears. It was just so... Doc. Like if Doc was a car, that would be it. A sleek and mature classic car that would always be admired, always throughout time.

He was ushered into the passenger's seat and settled in. He breathed in, and sank into the chair. It smelled clean and smoky, a bit like Doc's spicy cologne, a bit like the road, like it could somehow pick up the good scents of all the places Doc would drive to.

The lights flew by, as Lightning looked out the window, looking at the lit up racetrack. "Should we tell the guys where we're going?"

"They'll figure it out," came Doc's reply. Lighting finally looked at Doc, now that the older man had his eyes trained on the road. God he was so handsome. It took so long for Lightning to realize that, it wasn't that he wanted to be Doc, and drive like Doc— he had loved Doc, somehow, subliminally underneath all his thoughts. Like there was a second track in his mind, and underneath all the surface thoughts of, "Man, I wish I could drive like that," and "He makes me so angry because he's always right," was a steady current of, "I love him, I love him, I love him," at a frequency that Lightning couldn't hear, but Doc could.

Doc knew the whole time that he was a pining closeted wreck who didn't even know he was gay. Doc didn't encourage anything, because, gentleman that he was, he didn't want Lightning to imprint on the first gay man he saw.

And maybe he also knew. That underneath all the bravado that Lightning was a wreck. And when it comes to broken down people like Lighting, they'd become dependent and useless and—

"Hey, we're here," said Doc lightly, opening the passenger side door. Wow. They were already there at Doc's home and Lightning hadn't even noticed. It was like somehow time itself was twisted up like Lightning's mind, like a road that looped in all Mobius-like and nightmarish. Everything went so fast around him, but the thoughts in Lightning's mind were so slow, but also racing.

A few unacknowledged steps later and Lightning was sitting at the dinner table. Doc was cooking, and once in a while turning around from the kitchen to look at the younger racer. Lightning looked back with glazed eyes. At this point he wasn't thinking about the race. The race was already a million miles away. Or rather, not just the race anymore. All the previous races. The times he didn't make it. How bad he was before he met Doc. How bad he still was apparently, not even able to beat some newbie that came up this year in some souped up mechanical monster. 

A hot bowl of chili appeared, under Lightning's bowed head. His eyes focused on it, or tried to, but it seemed to just kind of almost float in front of him.

"Hey, you have to eat. Gotta get some food in you." Doc sounded worried, but his voice was still in that faraway range— like Lightning's head was in a bubble of hazy dense glass, and things just couldn't reach him.

He felt a cool glass touch his lips, and water tipping into his mouth. His lips parted automatically and before it he finished the glass of water, and Doc brought it down. "Hydration."

Doc came up to him, and used his fingers to open his eyes up. "Hmm," and with that, Doc took Lightning's hand, and tugged him up.

"We'll get food in you later. I think what you need is some rest. Okay come on, follow me, follow my voice. That's a good boy. I'm going to wash you with a towel, so come here to the bathroom. There we go. Shirt off. Now this towel is going to be warm. All done. This is a new shirt... okay, now off with your pants, we'll wash the lower half of your body. Good. Here's some new shorts. Alright, hmm. Okay time for bed. Come on now."

Lightning was under the covers, and Doc sat next to him, his warm hands pushing Lightning's hair back, over and over, a rhythm, a soothing wave.

Doc started to hum with his low voice, making a tune that Lightning couldn't figure out. It was nice, with Doc's low voice, and it pushed through the fog, and somehow Lightning could think about the race—because the race would come back, boomeranging in his mind over and over—and even though the thought of the race seared him, it felt like it dulled down to a throb now. Then it was being pushed back, pushed out of his head by Doc's repetition of humming and pushing his hair back. Fingers carding through his locks, fingertips sometimes brushing against his scalp.

How... Oh no, he was crying again. It was bad. God, he even fucked up this nice moment with Doc and— he was scooped up, held in Doc's arms. Warm, and strong, and protected. The humming continued. The hand was back on his head. But now he was sitting in the older man's lap, crying into his shirt again. But it was too much now. Too much to think, too much to cry, and Lightning fell into sleep.

It took a while for him to recover. It actually was bad enough of a breakdown for Doc to send him, well to a doc— a therapist. Apparently breaking down to the bare bones of your psyche was not something that happens to most people when they come in fourth at the top race of the year. Apparently that was a great accomplishment to be proud of. Or something. He and the therapist were working on it.

Doc had Lightning take a break from racing, and driving as well. Instead there were fun days hanging out with Mater at the junkyard, and hanging out in the bars (but with Doc looking over his shoulder to make sure he didn't drink himself into a stupor, only one or two drinks). His life became scheduled in a way through Doc's suggestions, "Why don't we go watch that movie that's out in theatres?" and "Sally told me she had some gardening to do, why don't we go help her out?".

The town somehow became even more friendly than usual. Probably they all heard about his breakdown. But... It was nice that they were here to help. That's why he loved Radiator Springs. It was the place where he found himself. Where he found Doc.

It took even more than a while before Lightning found himself behind the wheel without hyperventilating. And Doc had to be in the passenger side. There really wasn't any other way.

Just knowing Doc was there, it would calm his nerves. And every time he finished driving, Doc would walk over to his door, open it up, and offer his hand to Lightning. Doc's hand always felt soft, and warm, but mostly just solid. Like no matter how far Lightning drifted, there was always a touchstone, waiting right at the end of the drive.

Then came the first race, and it wasn't really anything either, it was a race against Mater, and it was easy for Lightning to win, and he did it really fast— actually going through the track in a speed that he hadn't had for a few months now, even before the big race. Winning was fine, but seeing his friends hollering as if he won a much bigger race, getting lifted up by Mater once the big guy made it to the finish line, and seeing Doc's smile. Yeah, this was what it was supposed to be like to win. And actually, he probably would have gotten that on that day, if he just kept it together. But he didn't, and he didn't have that day, but he had it now.

"Good job kid," came Doc's voice, murmured into his ear. Lighting shivered, and recklessly turned around and his lips brushed against Doc, and his mouth parted in shock, but then they ended up kissing, right in the bar, in front of all their friends, and it really didn't matter because Lightning finally knew that Doc liked him in this new exciting way as well.

Lighting later asked when Doc fell in love with him. "The very first time I saw you on TV coming out of your car. And every time after that."

He melted at those words, and that night, and every night after he would find himself in that same state, like ice melting slowly in spring, thawing and breaking, but as it was meant to be.

Lightning would get back to racing professionally again. But this time, win or lose, that wasn't what he was racing for. He was racing for his friends, he was racing to see Doc again at the end of the long track, and he was finally racing for himself.

**Author's Note:**

> I didn't really know where this was going, but I pushed through and I'm glad I did. I liked writing Racing Hearts, but then I thought, oh no, Lightning lost... How's that gonna go? So then I went and found out.  
> Thanks for reading!!


End file.
